


Dream Another Presence

by PaulaMcG



Series: The Lost Years [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: 1982, Beaches, Canon Compliant, Dreaming, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Lost Years, M/M, Memories, Post-Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Sirius Black in Azkaban, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: This is the last summer when Remus has still not unlearnt to dream.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: The Lost Years [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691659
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Dream Another Presence

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in September 2009 for Livejournal community Dog Days of Summer on the basis of prompts _written in the night_ and _white sand_. I'm grateful to Livejournal user usakeh for the beta.  
> Remus and the friends he's lost will never help me make any money.

The sand is cool against Remus’s palms and the soles of his feet. His legs and thighs and chest are as white, and his skin is cooling, too.

A moment ago when there were still crowds around gathering their towels and picnic baskets and deck chairs, he stripped determinately to his underwear. Now he can’t see any purpose in approaching the waterline. He recalls only vaguely that he’s been longing for something related to this beach, those waves.

When he catches himself caressing his own skin, he realises that he’s been rubbing his arms. And that he’s given up, not bothering to try to stop shivering in the evening breeze. Why should he bother, after he’s been sweaty and dizzy from heat in the kitchen, working two shifts a day? He’s spent a whole week in this popular resort, and hardly glimpsed slices of the sea view between stalls on the pier, when dragging his feet towards the mattress on which to crash. Dreamed of plunging into the water.

But now it’s too late for it to be necessary. He can just as well stay sitting like this when the glare of summer has softened into a romance-purple sunset. Turn or not turn his head and look back, watch the people leaving, or those who have left. Images remain, and he’s not sure whether they are from mere moments ago or from the life which ended last year.

A white dress billowing in the wind, sun shining through and revealing Lily’s legs and her incredible belly. She’s a vessel in full sail, heading for new harbours.

Toes and a shock of unruly hair peeking out at the ends of the mass of sand they’ve buried James under.

A garish striped towel too small to protect every part of the reddening skin of an awkward young man. Peter’s got too much sun, but can’t leave for shade when all his friends insist on making the most of the perfect day, effortlessly deepening their tans, revelling in the grace of their own and each other’s bodies.

Dripping black tendrils plastered on the neck, and the sleek skin of the wide shoulders, licked by waves.

Before the irresistible smile Remus should now turn away from this image. Instead, enchanted by it, he’s already jumped up and stridden right into the water.

He’s in goosebumps at once, and he swims vigorously. On his back, he searches the paling sky for familiar stars, searches the feel of the water for a caring touch. Now he catches himself imitating the rhythm of sensual movements he remembers or dreams as shared.

This is the last summer when Remus has still not unlearnt to dream. Not the last one when everything reminds him of them – everything they used to do together, everything they never did. Not the last one when he thinks of Sirius every day. Every hour. This is the summer which never truly arrives – which reaches to caress him, almost arouse him, still not truly comfort him, only on that single evening off.

And then the season is over in the holiday resort. He’s back in London, gazing out to the stinking alley, to his lack of prospects.

Under the blanket of a cloudy late-August night Remus is at last in relative peace: neither hot nor cold. All cruel light has finally left him. 

In the darkness any absence is less glaring. He lies cautiously down on the very edge of his narrow mattress. He can dream another presence turned against the wall. There’s no way to reach over with his hand and brush his fingertips across the line of cheekbone and chin. But he can imagine that in a moment he’ll move just a bit, and the solidity of the back against his chest and belly, of the buttocks against his thighs, will amount to the miracle that they are together.


End file.
